This Life
by The Fallen Sky
Summary: Their life is far from perfect, but it's theirs.


Title: This Life  
>Author: The Fallen Sky<br>Rating: M  
>Pairing: Chlark<br>Summary: Their life is far from perfect, but it's theirs.  
>Warning: Here, there be sex.<br>A/N: This story is set in an AU that takes place after the Season 8 episode Infamous. In this world, Clark didn't have a Legion ring to go back in time and fix things. As a result, Clark, Chloe, Lois and Martha are fugitives and in hiding from the authorities. Also, this is told from Clark's POV.

Feedback is welcome. Enjoy!

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><p>It's late by the time I get back. It's <em>always<em> late by the time I get back.

The house is dark, and a quick check with my superhearing tells me everyone is asleep. Well, almost everyone.

As quietly as I can, I walk to our room and open the door.

The moonlight filtering in through the window provides enough light for me to see, and my eyes immediately go to the bed where I see her lying on her side, facing the door and curled into a ball, tucked snuggly under the covers, her eyes closed.

Anyone would think she's sound asleep, but I'm not just anyone.

Her heart rate and breathing betray her, let me know that she's wide awake and probably has been all night.

Smiling to myself, I close the door and continue my quiet journey to the bed, where I stop.

Looking down at her, I wonder how someone so tiny, so unassuming in appearance, could be such a powerful presence in my life and mean so much to me.

Without thinking about it, I reach out and begin lightly stroking her hair, letting the silken strands glide through my fingers.

She doesn't open her eyes, but she shifts slightly, and her heart begins beating just a little faster.

A giddy thrill runs through me at her reaction to my touch. It still amazes me that she reacts at all, at least to such an innocuous and innocent thing as me stroking her hair, but she does, every time. Makes me wonder if she's always reacted this way to my touch. If I'm being honest, she probably has, and the fact that she still does makes me feel special and powerful in a way that has nothing to do with super powers and is actually much more of a heady feeling than any of my powers has ever been able to give me.

After a few more moments of stroking her hair, I let my hand drift to her cheek, cupping it, my thumb lightly skimming over her lips, which causes her heart rate to jump, her breath to hitch and her body to shiver. Her eyes are still closed, and I can't help the small smile that curves my lips at how adorable it is that she's still pretending to be asleep.

My eyes, which are busy tracing every contour of her face, catch a glimpse of my jacket sleeve, torn, riddled with bullet holes and lightly burned, and my smile slowly fades, along with my good mood.

I'm suddenly and harshly reminded of the events of earlier this evening, the events that have kept me away from this place, away from _her_, the events that have become an all too regular part of my life.

My hand instantly leaves her face, and I alternate between staring at my ruined jacket sleeve and looking at her face.

Anger and frustration flare within me, and I remove the jacket as quickly as I can without using my powers and toss it across the room where it lands unceremoniously on the floor, another reminder of what my life has become.

After staring at the ruined jacket for a moment, I flick my gaze to her and notice that her eyes are open and she's looking at me, but she hasn't moved. Looking into her eyes, I see the concern and worry, the empathy and love she has for me, and I can feel my anger melting away, though the frustration remains and is quickly accompanied by a very familiar feeling...guilt.

Sighing to myself, I look away from her gaze, hoping that she didn't see the guilt in my eyes, but I know she did. She always does.

Without a word, I move to the foot of the bed and sit down on it, my weight causing the mattress to sink and the bedsprings to groan slightly. I then proceed to remove my boots and socks, followed quickly by my pants, leaving me sitting in nothing but my boxers and my blue t-shirt, which reeks of gunpowder and is riddled with bullet holes, just like my ruined jacket.

I briefly wonder if I have any clothes left to wear, because it seems that nearly every night I go out on patrol, I come back with my clothes in ruins. And thinking of all the patrols, how almost every time I go out I end up being confronted by the authorities, shot at and otherwise assaulted in their vain and misguided attempts to capture or kill me, I can't help but be flooded by a fresh wave of guilt, not for what my life has become, but for what I've done to my family, the people I love. After all, it's not just me they're after, it's anyone who's ever come in contact with me, everyone who knows me and my secret, which isn't a secret anymore.

Linda Lake.

God, how I curse that name.

She's responsible for all of this. She's the one who turned the world against me, and for what? Because she doesn't believe that anyone with abilities like mine could use them purely for the good of others? Because she doesn't believe in heroes? Because she loves the thought of tearing someone down, destroying their life, simply because she can?

If it wasn't for her, I never would have told the world about myself, that I'm an alien and that I've got powers. Oh, I may have come out to the world eventually, but not so soon, and certainly not because some wannabe reporter was threatening to expose me if I didn't play nice with her.

Regardless of how or why it happened, my secret is out, and I'm a wanted fugitive. The worst part is that my mom, Lois and Chloe are fugitives, too. Not only is my life ruined, but I've ruined theirs as well. Because of me, they have to hide out like common criminals, their reputations destroyed, their futures limited to either a life in hiding or a life behind bars.

The guilt I feel over what I've done to them is constant and nearly overwhelming at times. It's gotten so bad that I've considered surrendering to the authorities, giving them what they want in exchange for amnesty for the people I love. Once, in a particularly dark moment, I even considered ending my life. Fortunately, I didn't do anything rash or stupid, but that's more because of the people who love me than anything else.

Chloe, in particular, has been a godsend. She's been my rock, my voice of reason, my personal cheering section. Over the course of our time in hiding, she's become so much more than my best friend. She's the reason I keep going, the reason I continue to fight, the reason I go to the Fortress and train, the reason I go out every day and try to help people, even as I'm constantly attacked, both literally and figuratively. She gives me hope, shines light into the darkness that is my life. She believes in me. But, most important of all, she loves me.

She loves me.

I don't know why that came as such a revelation, but it did. I've always known she has feelings for me, that she loves me both as a friend and something more, but I had no idea just how strong and deep her love for me really is until everything went to hell. Perhaps what's most surprising is that I found it easy to return those feelings of love. I mean, I've always cared about her, loved her as a friend, my best friend, but I haven't often thought about her as something more than a friend. Sure, there have been a few occasions over the years when I thought maybe we could be more, but things just never seemed to work out. One of us was always running from the other, too scared to put our hearts on the line and possibly ruining what we had for a shot at something more.

If there's one good thing to come from this mess, it's that it brought us closer together, which I didn't even know was possible.

It started small, more frequent hugs, more casual touches, many meaningful looks and conversations, even the occasional pep talk and scolding when I needed it. Little by little, we became closer and closer, our interactions turning from strictly friendly to something more...intimate. It all culminated on one particularly bad evening.

I'd had a spectacularly terrible day, a day I wish I could forget. Even now, I try not to remember it, but I'm bombarded by memories, the weight of broken and limp bodies cradled in my arms, the wetness of my clothes and hands covered in the blood of the innocent, the stench of smoke, burning flesh and death filling my nostrils, choking me. I will those memories away, pushing them back into the dark recesses of my mind, but the impact of them remains, along with the impact of the aftermath of that horrible day. As if dealing with such carnage wasn't bad enough, I also had to deal with the media blaming me for not being there sooner, for not preventing those people, including children, from dying.

It broke my heart and wounded my soul.

The worst part was that while I knew I wasn't to blame, I still felt guilty, felt that I should've been able to save those people.

I remember coming home late that night, avoiding everyone, and finding a quiet place where I sank to the floor, my back against the wall, head in my hands, and just wondered why. Why was I given these gifts if they couldn't help me save everyone that needed saving? Why, with so much power, did I feel so helpless? Why did I feel guilty for something that I knew was beyond my control? Why did the world hate me? What had I done to deserve the hell that was my life?

As I sat wallowing in my misery, I didn't notice that Chloe had found me and that she'd taken up a position next to me on the floor, her back against the wall, her body close to mine, so close that I could feel the warmth radiating off of her. It wasn't until I felt her hand, small, soft and gentle, clasping mine, a brief squeeze of support before twining her fingers with mine, our palms resting together, that I finally broke free from my daze and acknowledged her presence, and then it was only to look down at our clasped hands, marveling at how tiny her hand was in comparison to mine, and yet, I could feel such incredible strength flowing from her hand, from _her_, into me, a strength that marveled me, a strength that dwarfed my own inhuman physical strength, and I wondered how that could be possible.

The silence stretched between us as I continued to stare at our joined hands, and the longer we touched, the better I felt. It didn't make sense. How could a simple gesture, a gentle touch, ease my tormented mind and soothe my soul?

At that moment, I didn't care how it was possible. All that mattered was that it was working, that I felt better and that she was the reason for it.

I finally stopped staring at our joined hands and looked at her, _really_ looked at her. Even in the dim light, I could see every detail of her face, the soft curve of her cheeks, the fullness of her lips, but what really drew my attention was the light in her eyes, a light that shown from the inside, a light that I'd seen many times but had never fully appreciated, a light that warmed the coldness I felt creeping into my soul, a light that gave me hope even as I was certain there was no hope to be had.

I don't know how long I stared at her, lost in her eyes, but I remember the quiet, surrounding us, enveloping us, broken only by our breathing and the beating of our hearts. I remember the feel of her hand in mine, the warmth, the strength flowing from her into me. I remember thinking how beautiful she looked and how much I wanted to kiss her, to feel her lips against mine. I remember her smiling at me, a tender, comforting smile that made my heart flutter. I remember her voice, soft and reassuring, as she spoke.

_"It_ will _get better."_

Four simple words. Words of encouragement. Words of faith. Words of belief. Words of hope. Words of conviction. Words that cut through the darkness and despair within me. Words that made me _want_ to believe in their truth. Words that opened my eyes to a different kind of truth, the truth of Chloe, of who she's always been, of what she means to me, of her place in my world.

Suddenly, the darkness within me was gone, burned away like fog in the early morning sun. I felt renewed, invigorated, filled with something indescribable, something that made me feel as if I'd burst at the seams if I didn't let it out.

Before I knew what was happening, my lips were on hers and hers on mine. For all the energy surging through me, the kiss was slow, soft and chaste, a touching of lips, a gentle caress meant to express gratitude and affection, but it expressed so much more. It spoke of love, a love that transcends logic and defies description, a love that is boundless and everlasting.

It sounds silly, but it all started with a kiss. Our friendship started with a kiss, two children sharing a quick peck on the lips, the beginning of a long and winding journey. And while we shared several kisses along the way, it was a kiss shared on a bleak night in the middle of a waking nightmare of a life that signaled the start of a new journey, one much like the first, but one we would take together, every step of the way, side by side, hand in hand until we reach the end.

I'm so caught up in my inner musings, that I almost miss the shifting of the bed as she moves from her place, her arms wrapping around me from behind, her front pressed firmly to my back, her head resting on my shoulder, her smooth cheek pressed against the roughness of my stubble.

My senses are filled with her, the warmth of her body, the softness of her feminine curves and skin, the scent of vanilla, wildflowers and something uniquely Chloe. She surrounds me, enveloping me in a protective cloak of her love, trying to ward off the darkness that continually attempts to creep into me and drown me in its murky depths.

We remain still and silent, simply enjoying the closeness, neither of us willing to acknowledge the elephant in the room.

I close my eyes and just listen. I hear everything, the terrified screams and desperate cries for help, the tears of anguish and sorrow...everything. It's what I hear every second of every day, and it breaks my heart, fills me with guilt and sadness, despair and anger. It threatens to drive me insane.

As if sensing my unease, knowing that I'm drowning and in need of rescue, I feel her hands begin to gently rub soothing circles on my chest, trying to calm and reassure me, let me know that she's here, that I'm safe. Her ministrations have the desired effect, as they always do, and I can feel my muscles relax, my body almost melting into hers.

After a long moment, she breaks the silence, her voice low and gentle but filled with conviction as she utters some very familiar words.

"It'll get better."

Just as the first time she said those words, I feel the power behind them, the truth in them, and I find myself wanting to believe them, to believe _her_, but things continue to be bad. The world still doesn't trust me and even hates me. And the nightmares persist, the voices and faces of those I failed to save still haunt me. Worst of all, the people I love are still condemned to a miserable fate, and all because they were foolish enough to love _me_.

I sigh in frustration, but hold my tongue, not wanting to ruin this moment. As she always does, she knows what I'm thinking even before I do, and she presses a tender kiss against my temple before pressing closer to me, squeezing me with all her might as if to show me just how much she loves me and how much she wants me to believe in her love and her words.

Fool that I am, I can't just accept her gesture and decide to open my mouth, my voice a rough and strained whisper.

"I'm sorry."

The surprise and curiosity is plain in her voice as she replies. "For what?"

"For everything. For dragging you into this mess. For taking away your dreams. For ruining your life. Just...for everything."

She sighs that irritated and frustrated sigh of hers, the one she uses when she thinks I'm being an absolute idiot, a big dumb alien as she once put it. And while I know she's irritated and frustrated with me, her voice is calm and even when she responds. "You've got nothing to be sorry for. You didn't drag me into anything. I'm the one who jumped at the chance to ride your coattails, refusing to let go even though you were running at superspeed. Lex Luthor stole my dreams, not you. And even if he hadn't, I would gladly have given them up if it meant protecting you or helping you reach your full potential. And you certainly didn't ruin my life. I like my life just fine the way it is. In fact, I wouldn't trade it for the world." She finishes that last part with a hint of a smile in her voice.

In that moment, I believe her, and I can feel the weight of my guilt easing. But, as is always the case, I find a new source of guilt to burden me, and this guilt troubles me in a very different, far more personal way than the majority of my guilt.

My heart feels like it's being squeezed in a vise, and I have to swallow the lump in my throat, my voice sounding weak and hollow in my ears as I broach a subject I've purposely avoided, a subject that scares the hell out of me.

"What about your husband?"

I can feel her tense for a moment, her grip on me loosening slightly, her hands ceasing their comforting caresses of my chest. She remains silent, though, and my heart sinks, because I know, just _know_, that I've hit upon the one thing that truly does bother her about our situation.

The silence seems to stretch on forever, and I feel an increasing urge to just run away from this moment, from her, from this awkwardness and from the pain in my heart.

She must sense my anxiousness, because she immediately grips me tight, her whole body squeezing mine, holding onto me to keep me close and perhaps to let me know that if I'm going to run, I'll have to take her with me. The gesture is endearing, and it eases my anxiety but doesn't quite alleviate it.

Moments later, she breaks the silence, her voice soft, low, clear and unwavering. "I care about Jimmy. He's nice and sweet and normal. He gave me something I felt was missing in my life. He made me feel good about myself, cherished me in a way I'd never experienced before. Most of all, he loves me."

Every word is like a knife to my heart. Deep down, I knew all of this, but it still hurts to hear her say it. And now I'm waiting for her to say what I most fear, that she loves him. My eyes are shut, my head bowed, and I'm bracing myself for the worst. As if foreshadowing what's to come, she releases me, her arms dropping away, her body moving away from mine. My throat is suddenly dry, my heart thundering in my chest, and I have to fight not to hyperventilate as I wait for the inevitable.

The bed shifts, and I can feel her body moving against mine. To my great surprise, she ends up straddling my lap, her knees resting against the bed on either side of me.

She's quiet for a long moment, and I'm afraid that she's trying to find the right words to tear my heart out. Each passing second feels like a lifetime in hell, and I just want it to be over, one way or the other.

To my surprise, I feel her hands cup my face, her thumbs gently caressing my cheeks. She remains silent, and I find myself getting lost in the pleasantness of her touch, reveling in it, memorizing the feel of it in case this is the last time I get to experience it.

I'm not sure how long we stay in this moment, but all too soon, her voice cuts through the silence. "Look at me." It's a softly spoken command, and I find I'm unable to disobey.

Reluctantly, I raise my head and open my eyes, meeting her emerald gaze. What I see takes my breath away. The light that's always in her eyes when she looks at me is still there and shining more brightly than I've ever seen it before. Her whole being is radiating comfort, reassurance and love.

After taking a breath, she continues, her voice taking on a slightly different tone, more emotion and conviction. "I don't love Jimmy, not in the way a wife loves her husband. Don't get me wrong. I did love him, still do on some level. But, I never loved him the way I love _you_. I've never loved _anyone_ the way I love you. Honestly, I don't think I ever could."

Her words are like a soothing balm, healing my self-inflicted wounds, causing my spirits to soar and an all-encompassing warmth to spread throughout my body.

Her thumbs cease their caresses, her face and voice taking on a solemnity I've never seen or heard before. "I don't regret being here with you. I don't regret _anything_ when it comes to you, not even the worst moments of our relationship. Everything that's happened between us has led us here. And there's nowhere I'd rather be than _here_...with _you_."

Instantly, the weight of my worries and guilt evaporates into the ether, leaving me feeling lighter than air. At the same time, I feel incredibly foolish for ever having doubted her and what we have, for believing that being with me is a curse, a burden that she has to carry instead of the blessing she deems it to be.

I feel compelled to apologize to her for my insecurity and lack of faith. I can only hope she's understanding and knows how I feel about her, because I'm not good with words. Still, I give it a shot, my voice sounding rough and strained and incredibly low.

"Chloe..."

It's all I manage before she presses a finger to my lips to silence me, not allowing me to tell her how much I appreciate her, how much I need her and how much I love her.

Instead, she simply looks deep into my eyes, almost as if she's peering into my soul, like she's searching for something. It's a little disconcerting but also thrilling.

Finally, she removes her finger from my lips, and I notice the affectionate smile on hers. Her voice is so quiet and reverent as she utters two simple words.

"I know."

It's then that I'm reminded that _she_ is the person I'm meant to be with, the one person I can't live without, the person I love more than life itself.

I'm nearly overcome with the emotion of it, and I want to express those emotions to her, share them with her, but I don't know how.

Before I know what's happening, she's kissing me, a tender, feather-light touch of the lips, and I know she understands how I feel, because she feels the same way. It's all in her kiss.

She kisses me several times before my brain kicks in and I start to kiss her back, relishing the feel of her lips against mine.

We continue to kiss, soft, chaste and unhurried, the lack of urgency only heightening the emotion, the pleasure of the moment.

I love kissing her. I could kiss her all day long.

Of course, my thoughts become a little less innocent when I feel her hands slide down my body, grip the hem of my ruined t-shirt and begin tugging it up.

She tries pulling the shirt up, but I stop her, gently removing her hands from my shirt and then tearing it off of myself and tossing it aside like the rag that it is, never breaking our kiss.

Her hands immediately begin exploring my now bare chest, shoulders and back, her fingertips ghosting over my muscles, causing them to twitch and shiver.

My hands find her bare thighs, and I slowly caress the silky smooth skin, moving slowly upward, slipping under the hem of the old flannel shirt she's wearing until my fingers reach the soft cotton of her panties.

She moans against my mouth as I trace the waist of her panties, my fingers dipping inside, feeling the incredible warmth that lies just below.

Pleased by her response, I move my fingers just a little bit lower, brushing her downy soft curls, feeling the slight wetness there.

She whimpers at the contact, kissing me a little bit harder, her hips rocking forward, seeking more contact. I oblige her, my fingers moving lower, seeking and finding her sensitive nub, applying gentle pressure and rubbing it in tight little circles, which makes her gasp and shiver.

I continue my ministrations until I feel her wetness coating my fingers and then remove my hand from her panties, which causes her to whine in disappointment, and I kiss her a little deeper, my tongue sweeping into her mouth, tasting her sweetness.

That seems to mollify her, for the moment, and I take the opportunity to start working on getting that shirt off of her. My fingers fumble with the buttons, clumsy from nerves and anxiousness. I'm flustered and desperate, so I opt to just tear the shirt like I did mine. Before I can make scrap out of it, her hands cover mine, stilling them. She then takes over the task I had started but failed to finish, quickly and deftly unbuttoning the shirt and pulling the material aside. She doesn't manage to get the shirt off, though, because my arms are around her, my hands splayed against her back, pulling her to me.

I can feel her smile against my lips when I groan, long and low, as her bare breasts, so soft and warm, press against my chest, her nipples already stiff points, scraping my skin, causing waves of pleasure to shoot to my already throbbing groin.

As if sensing my need, her hands make their way down to my waist, her fingers toying with the waistband of my boxers before slipping inside, briefly playing with the coarse hair there before, finally, her fingers touch the sensitive skin of my cock, causing it to jump and my whole body to shudder. Gently, oh-so gently, her fingers trace my length, from tip to root and back again, making me throb with ever greater need and causing my desire to burn hotter.

Finally, she grips my shaft, her delicate fingers curling around me, her fist gripping me firmly, giving me a squeeze before slowly stroking up and down my length...once, twice.

In response, my hands glide down her back and slip inside her panties, cupping her firm backside, each hand squeezing a cheek, kneading the supple flesh.

Her kisses intensify as she pulls my cock from my boxers and raises up on her knees. She leans against me for balance as her free hand reaches between us to pull her panties to the side. Moments later, I feel the slick heat of her entrance as she rubs the tip of my cock along her seam, teasing both of us momentarily before she begins slowly lowering herself on me, my hard length sliding easily into her welcoming warmth, her inner muscles stretching to accommodate me.

_Fuck_, she's tight. And hot...and wet, so incredibly wet.

God, she feels so _good_. I love being inside her. It's like nothing I've ever felt before. If Heaven were a feeling, a sensation, it'd be this, the two of us joined together, fitting so perfectly, like we were made for each other.

I wish I could tell her how much I love the feel of her, of being inside her, but my mouth is occupied and my brain is on autopilot, so all I manage is a rumbling growl of approval that she answers with a sighing moan.

Despite our rising passion, there's still no urgency in our actions. We continue to kiss at a languid pace, savoring the experience, and she's just begun slowly rocking her hips, providing the barest hint of friction, enough to send a low and constant thrum of pleasure through my entire body.

We continue our intimate dance, taking our time, lips nipping and tasting, hands exploring and caressing, reveling in our connection.

I'm not sure how long we're at it before I feel the telltale tingle at the base of my spine and in my balls that signals the end is near, but forever wouldn't be long enough. Still, I'm nearing the edge, and I can sense she is, too, her body beginning to tremble as she struggles to maintain the pace of her hips, her kisses becoming a little more demanding, her hands tangling in my hair, her nails lightly scraping against my scalp.

I'm teetering on the edge, fighting to hold on, to make this last as long as possible, but when I feel the flutter of her inner muscles, the spasms that signal her release, I'm lost, following her into ecstasy. My balls tighten, my cock swells and jerks, my seed spilling into her in long, powerful bursts. Pleasure cascades over and through me, my vision going white. All I'm aware of is her, her inner walls milking me, increasing and prolonging my pleasure, her nails digging into my scalp, her lips against mine, moaning her pleasure into my mouth.

As the pleasure recedes, I become even more aware of her, if that's even possible. My senses are consumed by her, the feel of her hot breath against my neck, her hair against my cheek, her soft breasts and hard nipples against my chest, the sweat-slick skin of her back beneath my caressing hands, her hands stroking the hair at my nape and caressing along my shoulders, her inner walls, tight, wet and warm, cradling my still hard and twitching shaft, the musky scent of sex combined with her feminine sweetness filling my nostrils, the sound of her ragged breathing and rapid heartbeat gradually slowing as she comes down from her high echoing in my ears. It's intoxicating, making me drunk with euphoria and love.

We remain in our lover's embrace, quiet and still, simply enjoying the closeness of our bond, our passion quenched, for the moment, and our love made stronger.

Eventually, she begins to stir, lifting her head from the crook of my neck, shifting back slightly, putting some distance between our bodies and allowing me to gaze upon her beauty. Her once blonde-now chestnut hair, falling just past her shoulders, mussed, her lips, full and inviting, kiss-swollen, her breasts, ample and glistening with a thin sheen of sweat, gently heaving with each breath she takes, and her eyes, emerald and deeper than any ocean, glowing with affection and boundless love. The silvery moonlight gives her an ethereal glow, making her appear every bit the angel she is.

_My_ angel...

Reaching out a trembling hand, I brush back a stray strand of hair, tucking it behind her ear, my fingers lightly tracing the curve of her cheek and across her lips.

Looking deep into her eyes, I feel as though I'm looking into her soul and she into mine, my voice a reverent whisper.

"I love you."

She rests her small hand over my heart, causing it to beat just a bit faster, her voice mirroring mine.

"I love you, too."

A small smile curves her lips, a matching smile curving my own, and she leans in, pressing her smile against mine, making me feel happier and more content than I've ever felt in my life.

xXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

The sky outside the window is lightening with the approach of dawn, and yet I find I'm unable to sleep. Unlike most nights, though, my mind isn't filled with guilt and worry and all the dark thoughts that seem to constantly plague me of late. The world is quiet, as well, the ever-present cries for help blissfully silent, further soothing my burdened soul.

My thoughts and senses are consumed by _her_, the feel of her bare chest against mine, her head resting on my shoulder, her soft, even breaths against my skin, the weight of her body pressing down on me, the sound of her heartbeat, strong and steady, in my ears.

My hands rub soothing circles along the smooth, heated skin of her back, and I wonder what she's dreaming about. Does she dream of vast cornfields and a yellow farmhouse where dark-haired children laugh and play in the yard? Or does she dream of a more stark existence, one where those dark-haired children are hated and hunted, like me?

I hope it's the former, because that's what I dream of, when I can sleep and when I'm not having nightmares. I dream of a half-dozen children, a mix of boys and girls, each with my dark hair and her eyes, some with my smile, some with hers, some tall like me, some short like her and all of them with her personality, intelligence and energetic and inquisitive spirit. I dream of hectic mornings with big breakfasts and family dinners filled with conversations about the happenings of the day. I dream of bedtime stories and goodnight kisses against little foreheads. I dream of developing powers, honest conversations and fatherly guidance. I dream of first days of school, homework, report cards, field trips and summer vacation. I dream of Thanksgivings and Christmases celebrated with friends and family, home-cooked meals and gift-wrapped presents given with love. I dream of birthday parties and lit candles atop cakes being blown out as wishes are made. I dream of first dates and proms and the accompanying worries and pictures. I dream of smiles and frowns, laughter and tears.

I dream of waking up next to her every morning and falling asleep with her cradled in my arms every night. I dream of watching her belly grow big and round with each of our children, of being in the delivery room as each child is born, hearing their cries and watching her hold them for the first time. I dream of midnight feedings, of watching her in the nursery, baby suckling at her breast as she sings softly.

I dream of a life filled with love, the life I've always wanted, a life where she is forever at my side, supporting me, strengthening me, believing in me, loving me, no matter what may come our way.

The life we have now is nothing like my dreams, but she continually reminds me that things will get better, that, someday, we can have the life we deserve, one where we aren't hunted by the authorities and where people love and appreciate me for the good I'm able to do instead of hating me for failing to live up to their unrealistic expectations.

I long for that better life. I pray for it every day, even as the darkness of reality threatens to consume me. She is my light against the darkness, my hope against despair.

She is the reason I continue to fight and the reason I _know_ I'll win.

She's already given me more than I ever could've hoped, more than even _she_ realizes.

As I lie here, reveling in the wonder that is Chloe, I focus my hearing on her heartbeat and the smaller, secondary heartbeat that accompanies it, allowing the rhythmic sound to lull me to sleep so I can dream of the life we'll have...the life we've made together.


End file.
